My headlights reflected off the asphalt, creating long shadows. Some song off U2's new album nipped at my subconscious, my mind already on home, mere minutes away. The hairs stood at attention on my arm when he landed skittering toward my shoulder. Involuntarily shivering as his eight legs danced, invisible inside the dark car. No shame, I screamed, releasing the wheel to unleash my ninja wrath upon my tormentor. No identifiable remains to be found, I can only assume I got him. This was Wednesday.
On Friday, one of his posse came to call in the blood debt as I dozed lazily in the living room. A small tickle, I reached to scratch, coming away with a handful of hairy legs. Still more blood on my hands.
Yesterday, coming home from Mother's Day in the park, we were paid another visit from the "family." Everyone had settled in for the hour ride home, boys capturing the moment for a quick nap. Our moment of peace shattered as a shriek erupted from the back seat. Cole, curling back in fright, trying to put as much space as the seat belt would allow between himself and the assassin.
Popping my seat belt, I spun to the rescue (T was driving). Wielding a deadly hard back copy of Jack Rabbit Goalie, I lunged, driving full force into his midsection. Turning expectantly to my son, ready to bask in all the glory of being his hero, he said "What are you doing out of your seat. Don't you know the police man could stop us and you would get us in trouble. Go sit back down in your seat."
Don't you love it when you try to help someone out and they give you a hard time. I don't know why people struggle with accepting help sometimes. Pride. Stubbornness. Or maybe like my son they are confused by our methods. It's not what they expected, as we rush in and try to kill the spiders without involving them, all for our glory. I love him enough, not to stop killing his spiders. But maybe I will examine my methods.